


reach out and touch faith

by mirrorfade



Series: the reaper grins [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorfade/pseuds/mirrorfade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood mages don’t do so well in the Kirkwall Circle, but they still have their uses. Schemes are plotted, Idunna does the religious thing, and Hawke bribes people with puppies</p>
            </blockquote>





	reach out and touch faith

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Marilyn Manson version of _Personal Jesus_. TW for gore, cannibalism, discussions of rape, and very messed up people. I have a weakness for minor villains and thinking about Circle culture. Have a [soundtrack](http://8tracks.com/mirrorfade/the-reaper-grins) just for fun.

The first time they meet, Hawke does not kill her. 

This is something of a sticking point among the templars, Idunna finds. The fact that an apostate survived an encounter with the Champion of Kirkwall. They let her in when she walks, trembling, up to the Gallows, and they listen. Then they put her in chains, take them off to Harrow her, and then put her back in irons again. This is her fate. But she is not killed, because Hawke chose to let her live. 

People listen when Hawke speaks – or, more often, they pay attention when Hawke does something. Especially when she leaves things alive. There’s always a reason, the templars whisper. Half of them are in love with Hawke and most of them are terrified of her too. Personally, Idunna thinks that Hawke is exactly like many of the customers she served at the Rose, only meaner. A bully with mean eyes and a big sword. Plenty of those floating around Kirkwall these days. Nobody bothers worshipping _them_. Not that anyone asks for Idunna’s opinion these days. 

Not that anyone ever wanted to know what Idunna thought. 

The templars don’t kill her, though. So maybe that’s an improvement. 

They put her in a cell away from the others, away from everyone but the dust. Because Idunna has nothing better to do, she thinks about the Maker. Sometimes she thinks about Hawke too, but only one of those two is ever going to answer her prayers. All things considered, Idunna prefers to place her faith – such as it is – in something that’s never considered taking her head off. 

Maybe there was a chantry brother, one time. But that’s different. He was deranged. 

**

It takes her less than a day to start with the pacing, walking back and forth across the stone floor. Her feet bleed. Idunna kneels down and watches the blood dry. Then she does it again, because the templars won’t let her _out_. Idunna thinks she knows a thing or two about torture, more than a thing or two about pain. This isn’t anything special. It’s not even very creative. She’s strong. She may not be quick or clever, but she endures. She’s everything terrible and ruined from Darktown with magic snapping through her bones. And if the templars want to drive her mad, if they want to make her beg, then Idunna will fucking _destroy_ them. She’ll meet everything they give her head on, eyes wide open, and she will fucking _endure_. Just like she endured everything that came before and everything that has yet to come. 

“Fuck you,” she hisses at the walls. There’s not even a window to look out of. Just dark stone and dust motes. 

**

It goes on like that for a while. The templars bring her food on a wooden tray at intervals, and never speak to her. The first few times, Idunna sneers at them. She has nothing to her name except a set of ill-fitting robes. Scrounged up from the last failed Harrowing, the templars sneered at her. Idunna sees the dark stains around the collar, and tries not to think about that. But because she has some pride, in the end, she wears those robes. They hang too long in the sleeves and cinch oddly around her breasts, but she endures. It’s far too cold at night to go without. Sometimes the templars give her candles and books to read, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes there are no candles at all, and Idunna spends her nights shivering on her cot. She has no shoes and no blanket, so she wraps all of the robes around her in a big nest. Whens she dreams, she dreams about dead apprentices and grinning skeletons. 

She wakes up cold and crying. 

The templars never speak to her. Not even once. 

**

It’s never explained to Idunna why she can’t live with the other Harrowed mages. She played by the rules. Didn’t come to the Gallows kicking and screaming, oh no, she was a good girl; walked up those steps all on her own. Even paid for the ferry ticket to get over. That sound count for something, Idunna hisses at the door. That should fucking _count_. She knows the templars are behind the door, knows that they can hear her. She was good and she hasn’t fucked up since she came; she knows how the favor game works and it’s not like she’s some sobbing virgin; Idunna knows how the world works. She could play the game. She wouldn’t make a scene, oh no. She’d be _so good_.

She’d be the perfect little mage, Idunna tells the door. And it’s not like she doesn’t know what they like, all those templar boys. She knows some of them very well by now. 

The door remains forever impassive. 

Idunna resists the urge to scream at it. It would put lines on her face. 

**

One day they forget about her. There’s a commotion somewhere in the Gallows, lots of screaming and all that nonsense, and Idunna pounds and pounds on the door, claws at the hinges and even tries to burn them off, but nothing gives. The damn cell is covered in anti-magic wards, and her hands have never been as strong as she’d like. She keeps at it for a long time, until she’s too tired to fight the door anymore, and falls asleep in a pile on the ground. She’s hungry and cold and her dreams reflect that a tad too well. 

The templars come back eventually. Maybe it’s the same ones as before, maybe not. Hard to tell when they wear those helms. They leave Idunna’s food on the floor, next to her. 

She grabs at one of their boots. “Wait—”

The templar’s eyes are cold and sharp behind the helmet. 

“What’s going on?” she tries, putting on a smile. Sweet smile, yes it is. Pretty smile too, even if she hasn’t got any lipstick. “I just want to know—”

He kicks her in the face. 

**

It takes a while for the pain to sink in. The templars can hear her crying. They don’t send a healer. Probably want to let her sit with it. Think about what she’s done. What a bad girl she is. Idunna prods at her face, winces at the sharp pain. She can feel her blood swelling up under the skin, can hear the bones crunching against each other. If she’s very careful and _subtle_ about it, then maybe she could charm her face back into the proper shape. 

She’s never been quite as careful as she’d like. Recent events had made that very clear. 

Idunna pulls one of the robes over her face, and tries to sleep off the pain. Her nose is still broken when she wakes up. 

**

She hears the demons in the walls. Hears their whispered promises echoing off that ugly stone, and covers her ears. But most days there is nothing to do but listen; they’ve stopped giving her books. Someone was dabbling in blood magic again, got a whole bunch of idiot apprentices killed. On principal, really. The templars have always been predictable. And no one is going to accuse Idunna, oh no, but they _wonder_. Some of them probably know. Anything with Hawke’s hands on it will either burn like the sun, or destroy like only a demon can.

Sometimes, Idunna wonders if she shouldn’t just call on them. The demons. 

At least they listen when she speaks. At least they _talk back_.

Idunna spits out a tooth into her soup, long since gone cold, and tries to force her nose back into alignment. It doesn’t work. She feels something give under the skin, hears it _pop_ , and screams. 

The demons laugh at her. It might be sympathetic if she pretends. 

**

Idunna’s face is a swollen mess on the day that the templar comes to see her. She made too much noise in the night, howling and cursing at the door, and eventually the guards came in – she’d been disturbing them, you see, and the tall one kicked her again. In the face. Of course. So Idunna lies down on her cot and tries to heal herself, tries to slip magic under her skin, and feels the blood swelling up beneath the mess of her face. It’s a pretty sight, it really is. 

The templar who comes in is young, blonde, baby-faced. Idunna cracks an eye to glare at him. 

Oh. Wonderful. It’s one of the brats she cursed, way back when. 

She thinks his name is Keran. Maybe. He wasn’t worth remembering. Not many people were, back in the days she’d worked in the Rose. 

Except, of course, that this one’s still alive. And apparently still has a job. Who knew?

Idunna wrinkles her nose at him, doesn’t flinch when the crusted blood pinches her skin. “What?”

The templar looks down at his feet. Squirming under that armor. Idunna knows the type. Or knew. Nobody’s afraid of her in here. She rolls over to face the wall. Maybe this is revenge. Everyone hears about these things in the Gallows, and no one says a word. This is how it goes, after all. Idunna wraps her arms around herself. 

It’s only her face that hurts. Everything else is just fine. 

“Get on with it,” she mutters, staring at the wall. She can see nail marks scarring the walls, not all of them hers. The demons are quiet today. She can’t hear them at all. And it’s not bad enough that she wants to. Idunna knows how this works. She’s not stupid. Sometimes she just miscalculates. 

Besides, Keran’s just a baby-faced idiot. He’s not creative enough to really hurt her. 

The templar coughs. “You need to drink this.”

Idunna closes her eyes in disgust. “Your mother was a whore.”

It’s not the most creative, but she’s tired. 

“Look,” the templar tries, “you—”

“And your papa sucks off dog lords.”

He’s quiet for a while. “If you drink this, one of the healers will come look at your face.”

Idunna rolls over to stare at him. The brat’s holding a cup of something red and steaming. Magebane. Of course. “Then give it here.”

Keran, the brat, leaves it on the ground and then promptly makes a break for it. 

**

Magebane burns in her belly, twists ‘round until she’s sick and then burns again until she can do nothing but curl up and think about crying. Think about it, but stay quiet, because even that hurts too much. The templar brat is a liar like all the rest, because the healers never fucking come. 

Somebody else does, but not a healer. 

**

In the morning, Idunna rights her torn robes as best she can. She’s no stranger to blood. The mess between her legs is going to start smelling in a bit. There’s nothing to clean it with. Idunna does the best she can. 

At least her hair isn’t too damaged. Just a few strands ripped out. If she combs it right, then no one will notice. 

Keran comes to see her, though not with magebane this time. He lingers in the door way, hands clasped behind his back. To stop with the fidgeting, Idunna thinks. He frowns at her, confused in that puppyish sort of way that idiots often are. “They were supposed to fix your face.”

Idunna grins at him. Makes it nasty, makes it mean. “Was there something you needed, _Ser_ Keran?”

He blanches. “No, ma’am.”

Well. That’s a nice change, isn’t it? Idunna leans back against the wall. Whether or not she believes him is beside the point. “You might put some wine in it next time.”

“What?”

“The magebane.” Idunna flicks a strand of hair. It’s not the same without the perfume, but she can manage. “Make it romantic. I could do with some atmosphere.”

Some makeup too, but an apostate can’t afford to be picky. But oh, Idunna misses being able to paint her face. It’s a bit like wearing a mask. Controlling what people see and how. Everything on her own terms. 

“I didn’t…” Keran swallows. “I didn’t…”

Are they really doing this right now? Idunna resists the urge to roll her eyes. “At least bring me some lipstick, big boy. I _am_ a professional, after all. No one seems to forget that, but they fail to see the importance of _staging_ in all of this…”

“I can’t bring you anything,” Keran murmurs. Eyes on his boots. 

Idiot, Idunna does not say. She calls him all sorts of nasty things in her head, but she never lets her smile crack. Can’t give up the smile. She purses her lips, makes them _pop_. “Then bring me a Sister, wouldn’t you?”

Keran blinks. “What?”

“I want to confess my sins,” Idunna lies sweetly. “You understand.”

Bless his stupid little heart, Keran does. 

**

Really, Idunna just wants to talk to somebody who’s not a templar and drink wine. For that, she can pretend. Confession means that a Sister with soft hands comes in and sits with her, listens to Idunna and pets her hair. They even drink wine, watered down but still sweet. Idunna confesses to ten different things, lies she’s taken from the lewd novels of darktown. Like may professionals, Idunna knows a thing or two about what sounds good. What people want to hear, what they want to tell her in return. Confess your sins, but make sure it’s the _good_ kind of sin. Sorrow is necessary. Tears are good too, but only a few. None of that ugly crying. Dap at the eyes a few times. 

It hurts when Idunna touches her face, but she powers through it. “I’m going to make amends,” she tells the Sister. “I’m going to make it _right_.” 

People fill in the blanks with things like that. 

**

She gets in the habit of praying down on her knees. By the door, most days, since she lacks a window or an altar. But the door haunts her dreams, so it might as well do time as an idol. Idunna brushes her hair back, settles down on her knees, and prays. 

Loudly. 

There’s a reason for everything, and the templars – even the nasty, hollow-eyed lyrium addicts – harken back to religion. So if they hear her praying, then she becomes the unfortunate devotee in their minds. Even if they knew her as a whore first, they’ll remember the sound of her prayer. Sympathy goes a long way in places like these. 

It’s not unlike growing up in Darktown. Find a role and play it well. Then you’ll survive. Idunna remembers her parents, vaguely. A day laborer and a whore. She took her father’s profession young. Always had a knack for it. Not the fucking so much as the face; how to paint her mouth, clean her nails, smile just so. Her mother was a beast of a woman, cracked hands and bad knees. Both of them died badly. At least her father died with wine on his teeth. 

Given the choice, Idunna would rather be a whore than a day laborer. Her profession hurts less. 

Well. Former profession. The templars haven’t paid her for anything yet. She’s heard rumors about the favor trade around these parts. It hasn’t come around just yet. Mostly because the ones who visit Idunna don’t have to pay her anything at all, when they can just come and _take_. She doesn’t have any friends here, nobody to come to her side in the middle of the night or to make trouble with the officers.

So, she prays. 

**

It’s never been a matter of faith. Belief, sure. Idunna believes very deeply in what she knows to be true. Recite a few chants to the right Sister, and she’ll slip you a bit of cheese and the good bread. Kneel down for long enough in front of the chantry altar and the closest Mother will come slinking over with advice and a kind hand to the hair. Smile sweetly, make it demure and chaste, and the templar guarding her door won’t let things get too rough. All of this has been proven. Idunna has never had much use for the Maker, but she knows how religion works just fine. Belief, soft words, and the pretty picture she makes on her knees. The results are clear. She believes in what she can touch. What she can do or that can be done to her.

The Maker never speaks to Idunna, but his children know the dance. So she gets in line and follows each step just so. 

Eventually, when the templars start to believe the reputation she’s building, they let her write letters. Not without reading them first, searching for codes or heresy, but it’s a small piece of freedom. Idunna uses it to further her own reputation of the repentant sinner. Trapped by her own circumstances and sadness; she’s a little fool, she lets them believe, and her feeble attempts at redemption are exactly the sort of thing that good mages are supposed to aspire to. The only way to survive in the Circle is to be meek and soft. Anything else will get you beaten down. 

She writes to Hawke because she doesn’t know the address of anyone else. 

She does not expect Hawke to respond. 

**

The first thing that happens is a knock on the door. Which is a surprise right there. Templars don’t knock. Ever. They just come barging in, armored boots clanging against the stone floor, and do as they please. There are no locks on these doors, no expectations of privacy unless the templars insist upon it. But this time, someone knocks. 

It’s Keran who opens the door, eyes down, face flushed. Of course he knocks. It’s not like he’s a real templar, anyway. Just some fucked up kid wearing armor and pretending at sanity. In another place, Idunna might find it satisfying that she made him that way. 

In this one, she can’t really bring herself to care. 

The Circle breaks everyone. In here, insanity’s nothing special. No more remarkable than a bruises. 

Idunna sits down on the edge of her cot. Not down her knees just yet. You can’t be _obvious_ about these things. “Yes?”

It’s not Keran who comes stomping into her room, though. She recognizes the clank and scream of armor. Except, of course, it’s not a templar at all who comes into Idunna’s cell with a mabari trotting in step. It’s Hawke herself, wearing stained plate armor and an ugly sword hanging from her back.

Hawke. The legend herself. 

Idunna blinks, then leans back. She’s wearing robes that don’t fit right, that have been repaired by ungainly hands; Idunna never did learn how to carry a stitch. She always found someone else to do it for her. It’s not a good image, completely the wrong one to present to Hawke. She looks weak, trodden down and plain, when she should be powerful. Dark and sleek, carefully made up. 

But, no. 

Hawke removes her helmet, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clank. “You can go, Keran.”

The brat closes the door without a word. Can’t even make eye-contact. It’s unclear whether he’s scared of Hawke or Idunna. The blood mage or the woman with the big sword. And all those little rumors…

People say all sorts of things about Hawke these days. 

Idunna makes herself smile. “Mistress Hawke. What a surprise.”

“I’d imagine,” Hawke rumbles. “Someone fucked up your face. I remember you prettier.”

She’s forgotten how blunt that Hawke is. No decorum at all. Idunna tips her head to the side, playing at grace even though she’s not dressed for it. “The Maker tests his faithful through fire.”

“Fire, was it?”

“I’m told it’s a metaphor.”

Hawke doesn’t smile. Not that it would improve her face much if she tried. She is, Idunna thinks, a remarkably striking woman. This is not the same as beautiful. Indeed, it is very far from beautiful. Hawke looks at least ten years older than she is, with a lined face and an ugly sort of sneer. No scars except for windburn and bad skin. She and Idunna have matching noses. 

A person like Hawke doesn’t have to be beautiful, though. They just have to be remembered. 

Idunna clasps her hands together, wishing she had a ring or two to fuss with. Something shiny to draw the eye. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

This time, Hawke does smile. Her grin bares gold teeth, slightly pointed. “I was talking with a Sister. Your name came up.”

Oh. Idunna holds herself very, very still. “Did it.”

Hawke nods, clicking to the mabari. 

The dog lies down on the floor, sniffing at Idunna’s bare feet. She pulls them away as gracefully as she can. It wouldn’t do, losing a toe to the maw of a Fereldan war hound. What would people say? “I suppose you got my letters,” Idunna tries. 

Did they cause offense? The wording was so careful…

“I did.” Hawke’s grin widens. Nearly all of her teeth have been filed into points. A demon’s maw, shining with gold and a promised threat. 

_Maker_. Idunna holds herself very still and does not allow herself to shiver, does not imagine what it would feel like to have Hawke rip her throat out. She’s beginning to see where the rumors get their ideas, why people are talking. Why the little apprentices and the older templars are whispering that Hawke is a fucking cannibal. 

What else would she be, with teeth like that?

“Oh,” Idunna manages. “I see.”

Hawke snaps her teeth in Idunna’s direction. Probably just to see her flinch. “They were helpful. The demons send their regards.”

“You destroyed them, then.”

Hawke shrugs. “Maybe.”

But maybe not. Which means…

Oh. Well then. 

Idunna frowns, even though it hurts her face. Her nose hasn’t quite adjusted to its new shape just yet. “Did you want something from me? Something particular?”

Smile. Make it sweet. 

Hawke smiles right back, with those horrible teeth. “I’m in need of an inside man, so to speak. And the Exotic Wonder seems to be out of work. It’s sad to see a professional such as yourself brought to such depths. Don’t you agree?”

Idunna holds onto her smile like the mask it is. “You remember the name.”

“It was hard to forget. Among other things.”

Is this flirting? It has all the signs, but none of the heat. None of the grace, either. Hawke flexes her hands, gauntlets clanking. “I probably should have killed you back then.”

“Maybe,” Idunna says. “But you didn’t.”

“I still could, you know,” Hawke muses, eyes focused right on Idunna. “If you asked nicely. Or annoyed me enough.”

“Oh, _don’t_ ,” Idunna hisses, falling to annoyance rather than fear. It’s safer. “You’re no templar.”

Hawke’s laughter echoes all over the walls. “It was personal back then. You threatened my sister.”

The fact that Idunna also threatened Hawke herself is not mentioned. 

“I love my sister very much, you understand.”

The sister. Idunna tries to remember and calls up an image of dark hair and wide eyes. An apostate walking in step with a warrior. Chainmail on her robes and Fereldan mud splattered across her knees. The sister. Of course. Little baby Hawke. “What of it?”

“She’s in here now,” Hawke explains. “My _dear_ sister. And we all know what templars like to do in the dark.”

Of course they do. All mages know. Women know better than most. Idunna feels her mouth curl into a sneer before she can soften it. But maybe they’re being honest here. Maybe they can both afford to be cruel. “What of it?”

“I would be very disappointed if that were to happen to her.”

“As any good sister would,” Idunna agrees. 

Hawke’s gold teeth flash. “I knew you’d understand.”

“A good sister like yourself might want assurances,” Idunna continues. She can see the game now, or at least parts of it. She can play this far if she’s careful. “Someone to keep an eye out.”

“Or several of them,” Hawke says. She inclines her head towards the door. “A few poor templars. A mage or two. And someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

Hawke’s grin isn’t anything pleasant. “You have a talent for listening in.”

Oh. That. Idunna’s smile fades. “They’ll kill me.”

“Of course they will.” Hawke draws a line across the floor with the toe of her armored boot. It leaves a scar behind. The dog sniffs at it curiously. “If they even _suspect_. But you’re a brave woman, aren’t you?”

“I can be. If I have the proper incentive.”

Hawke chuckles. “Of course. And do you believe I could provide sufficient…incentive, as you say?”

The rumors say that Hawke has become a very powerful woman, wealthy in more ways than one. And it is true; she loves her sister. To dangers degrees, as it happens. People like that don’t skimp on their bribes anymore than they do their threats. Idunna curls a strand of hair around her finger, ignoring the split ends. “I have faith in your persistence, Mistress Hawke.”

“Good girl,” Hawke murmurs. “That’s very good.”

**

It takes a few days, but eventually Idunna is released back into the general population. No longer segregated with the rest of the doomed blood mages, dead but still breathing, just waiting for that one slipup that prompts the templars to become truly nasty about it. She isn’t allowed out of her cell for more than a few hours, but she can walk in the library. Talk to someone other than Keran. Read books, real books, in the library. The thing that Idunna likes the best, however, is sitting out in the courtyard and drinking tea with the other mages. On good days the sun comes in and feels warm on their skin, and they can laugh. 

She makes a few friends among the mages there, mostly women, and learns which of the templars can be trusted. There aren’t many. But one of the mages has a cousin in the order, Ser Miranda, who can be counted on to help. It’s a tenuous relationship, since both the mage and Ser Miranda will likely be killed if anyone realizes their connection, but nothing in Kirkwall comes easily. Ser Miranda is the one who guards the courtyard and who can – occasionally – be convinced to sneak in candy for the youngest among them. 

It’s one of the few places that Idunna allows herself to feel safe in.

She meets Bethany Hawke, though only briefly. The other mage is a pretty girl, soft in all the ways her sister is not, and strangely kind. It’s hard to tell which of the templars have been bribed or threatened into assuring Bethany’s safety, but there are at least three of them. Idunna thinks that Keran is among their number. There must be others, higher ranked and better liked, because nothing happens to Bethany. People leer, but never act on it. They know better. 

No one in the gallows is better protected than Bethany Hawke. 

Even so, Idunna keeps watch. She whispers to the demons at night and makes sure that no one lingers by Bethany’s door. The moment she becomes complacent is the moment that something will go wrong. 

No one is safe inside the circle. 

**

Hawke comes to see her sister almost every week, though never on the same day and never, ever at the same time. She comes between guard changes, at the middle of the day and sometimes even in the cold hours of the morning; Hawke comes whenever she pleases. And each time, there’s someone to let her inside and someone else to escort her sister out safely. Probably to make the templars squirm, Idunna thinks. Make them wonder exactly how much influence she has, how far she’d go if they push. And they have pushed. 

A few of them are dead because of it. Not by Hawke’s hand, of course. 

Nobody can ever prove that Hawke kills anyone. 

Ser Miranda knocks on her door one night, with Hawke at her side. This is hardly new. Sometimes Ser Miranda comes in and sits with Idunna at night. Discussing the Chant of Light, supposedly. Really they sit there drinking smuggled wine, while Ser Miranda shows Idunna all the slight of hand tricks that she knows. Little tricks that look like magic, but aren’t. But if someone else comes lurking, they see Ser Miranda sitting there in the candlelight, and think better of it. Ser Miranda does this for several of the mages on her patrol route. She and Idunna never speak of it. Both of them grew up in Darktown. Both of them learned how to lose the accent early on. 

All things considered, Idunna almost likes Ser Miranda. She knows better than to call it a friendship, though. 

Ser Miranda opens the door carefully, and then waves Hawke in. 

This time, Hawke is wearing a dress and no armor at all. Idunna eyes her up and down. It’s not a very nice looking dress, about ten different pieces of fabric, differing textures but all in shades of blue. Some of the chunks are embroidered with beads. A few of them click with bone shards and bits of gold. The style of dog lords, Idunna thinks. Hawke has a basket resting against her hip, the contents covered with a thick blanket. She sets the basket down on Idunna’s bed. 

The basket, to Idunna’s more than slight concern, is _twitching_.

“Is it going to bite me?” Idunna hisses. “What _is_ that?”

Hawke chuckles, but does not sit down. “Have a look.”

It takes Idunna a moment to stop staring at Hawke. 

Hawke, who is wearing no shoes. 

She’s missing one of her toes, Idunna notes. The middle one on her right foot. 

Huh. 

Apparently it’s not just elves who like to go barefoot. Who knew?

Carefully, Idunna pulls the blanket back. 

The basket _squeaks_. 

There’s something brown and furry curled up inside. Idunna blinks. A puppy. Big paws and a big head and a spindly little tail. She reaches out and runs a finger down the puppy’s back, gingerly. It makes a little chuffing sound. Idunna snatches her hand back, as if burned. “What is this?”

“A reward.” Hawke doesn’t smile. “I am a Dog Lord, after all.”

“Is this a…a mabari?”

“One of six.” Hawke nods to the basket. “The runt.”

The runt. Right then. Idunna clasps her hands together uneasily, watching the puppy nose around in the basket. The eyes are open, but only just. The puppy’s fur reminds her of dark honey, soft and warm. “It’s too little….”

“The mother died. I found the babies. Weatherly insisted.”

“Weatherly?” Idunna manages. 

“My dog.”

Oh. Right. Of course the beast’s name is Weatherly. 

Idunna looks back to Hawke. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Take her. Feed her, clean her.” Hawke shrugs. “A mabari is the truest soul of all the Maker’s children. A man is mighty indeed when a war dog walks at his side. And a mage would have no better protection.”

Protection. Idunna looks the puppy, who could fit in her cupped hands. Just a baby. Not even strong enough to protect itself from the world, let alone make a stand against templars. 

Hawke leans in close, touching a hand to the little dog. “She will grow quickly. And this will open many doors. How much would your friends give just to hold something soft?”

Something sweet and innocent, like a dog, something that would never bite without reason. Another bribe, another bid for popularity. Idunna knows she’ll never be trusted in the Circle, with the rumors of blood magic tied so tightly to her name, but a dog would bring her friends. True friends, who would trade protection and secrets just for the opportunity to pet the little dog. 

How clever. 

Idunna picks the dog up carefully, cradling the puppy to her chest. The dog sniffs at her, then licks her chin. She’s very warm. Idunna can feel the puppy’s heartbeat going _thump-thump-thump_ against her chest. It’s been so long since she’s held anyone. Since she’s been aloud to feel anything without first checking her face for the right smile. So long since Idunna has remembered what it was like not to be afraid all the time. She closes her eyes, holding the puppy close, and feels tears gathering. Which is stupid. This is all very foolish. It’s only a dog, the runt of the little, a discard that Hawke is pawning off on her because she can’t sell the damn thing. It’s not even a very good bribe. The templars will probably take the dog away the moment Hawke leaves; they might even kill it if they’re in a mood, they’ll take the dog away—

The puppy nips at her chin, whining. 

Idunna sniffs, wiping at her eyes. No crying. She is better than this. She is born of blood magic and all the hidden places of Darktown; she does not fucking _cry_. “Why?”

“Why not?”

**

Hawke leaves without a word after that. Idunna lies down on her cot and holds the puppy to her chest, listening to the little noises she makes in dreaming. Do mabari enter the fade? Maybe not. It sounds like a good dream. Maybe the demons don’t bother with dogs. Idunna tucks the puppy inside her robes as the night goes on. It’s cold outside, too cold for a baby, and she has no blankets of her own. 

The templars don’t take the mabari away from her. Idunna tries to keep the puppy hidden in the basket, sneaking her bits of oatmeal and bacon from her breakfast tray, but mabari are too big, too loud; they draw attention. 

To Idunna’s surprise, the templars ask to pet the dog. 

To her even greater surprise, they ask her politely. 

Most of the time, she says no. Mostly for the novelty of being able to refuse a templar, and for the way they just shrug and accept it. As if a mage can just say _no_.

When it comes to a mabari, apparently they can. 

“You have a friend,” Ser Miranda comments one night, as they’re drinking. “Does she have a name?”

“Honey,” Idunna says, without thinking about it. She has the puppy on her lap, held close. The puppy is growing, but not as fast as most mabari do. One of the other mages on their floor is from Fereldan. He had a mabari once. He knows how it goes. “She’s mine.”

“I know,” Ser Miranda says. Ser Miranda doesn’t argue with anyone. She’s like a mage in that regard. Smiles and nods and goes along with everything on paper, until your back is turned. Then she just does what she always wanted to. “I hear they bond hard, mabari.”

Do they? Idunna bounces Honey in her lap, smiling as the puppy barks. She never liked dogs before she knew solitary confinement, before she knew the Circle. Things change. Then Mistress Hawke gave her a mabari in a basket, and suddenly Idunna wasn’t alone anymore. The cell became louder, warmer. Not just a prison, but a place that she fed Honey with a little bottle, cleaned her fur and filed her nails down when they got too long. Idunna thinks she might understand Hawke a bit more now. Gold is useful in the Circle, but it won’t save you. 

Sometimes a friend might.


End file.
